𝐋𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐇, simon riley

onze

SOAP HEAVES HIMSELF UP FROM THE COBBLESTONE, leaning against a colorfully graffitied plaster wall. Humid Las Almas air wraps around him like a blanket, the heat adheres to his skin. The air feels electric as the sun slips down behind the hills guarding the city, and Soap tries not to think about the blood thats pouring out of his arm.

He groans, clutching his shoulder; the landing pad for one of Philip Graves' bullets. The earpiece in his ear crackles, emitting painful static before forming audible words.

"Soap, Vie. How copy?"

The thick British accent stills the adrenaline in his veins if only momentarily, and he exhales. He can't bring himself to answer, even when Ghost's voice crackles over the radio. "Johnny? Margot? How copy?"

"Solid," Soap croaks, slowly standing up, peering around the street corner at Graves' men.  He'll have to move. "Thought we lost you there. Margot, how copy?" No answer. From his hidden position, Ghost feels his stomach turn, ever so slightly.

"Mari, how copy?"

It's desperate. It sounds desperate, both Soap and Simon hear it. But at the same time, he wonders what claim he has to desperation? To wanting to know her like he does, when he can barely take care of himself. He doesn't know how to care for someone. What makes him think that this is any different?

Utter silence, on both ends. Nobody speaks. Simon, waiting covered by the church, feels his palms sweat. Just one more time.

"Mari, this is Riley. How copy?"

Soap listens to his teammate's voice, no doubt seconds from cracking. He wonders what the hell Margot Moreau did to get Simon Riley acting like this.

"Alive. Barely."

Mari is in Las Almas, in some house, bent over a mediocre first-aid kid she's busted out of someone's bathroom cabinet, trying to fit her earpiece back in.

"Fucking hell," she hears Ghost mutter over the comms, and she grits her teeth as she attempts to rinse the sizable crater on her leg, left by a Shadow's bullet.  The little aluminum shell hadn't even entered her skin fully, but cleaning the wound is proving to be... well, a bitch.

"Glad to hear your voice. I'd be disappointed if they offed you guys," Mari exhales, hoping that her slight humor will lighten the dire situation. She squeezes her eyes shut and bites back a yelp as rubbing alcohol enters the wound.

"Mari, what's your status? Are you mobile?"

Even if fleeting, the almost humorous thought occurs in her mind that Ghost is worried about her. All of the "Mari" this and "Mari" that— she sucks in a breath, tightly wrapping the now-clean injury and standing up slowly. There's other things to think about. "Graves's guys fucked me up pretty good."

"Where are you Moreau," Soap inquires in her ear. Mari creeps around a corner, quietly gasping when she sees the bodies of what looks to be two teenagers lying across the floor.

"I'm not sure. It's—" she diverts her eyes. "It's a massacre. Graves is gonna fucking pay for this. I don't care who does it, the next person to see him— just kill him." Mari knows how unrealistic it is, and that their rules of engagement would never let that slide.

"You know we can't do that," Ghost replies over comms, resentful. "Hey," Mari sighs. "Une fille peut rêver."

"English."

"A girl can dream."

She makes her way quietly to the kitchen and opens the drawers slowly, slipping two small steak knives into her pocket. "I found knives. I have a pistol, but no bullets. Soap, where are you? Have they still got Alejandro? What about Rudy?"